Into The Dark Chapter 4
I know.... it's here. So this chapter gets a little juicy so I'm only going to post HALF of it. I am a writer on the website Fanfiction and I have a collection of other juicy fanfictions about my favorite slashers. Jason, Freddy, Michael Myers, When A Stranger Calls, and more Norman Nordstrom. My bubble is small here so PM me and ask me for my account reference. Go yell at me there. Toodles and happy reading!
Chapter 4:
I open the package grandpa sent and tear open the envelope inside. It’s a postcard with a picture of Route 66 highway in the desert with a picture of a drunken cowboy on his horse holding up a sign ‘Howdy’. I smile and find what he’s promised me. It’s a single silver key, with an address, along with a new cellphone, the newest iPhone 17 already set up and his number is my only contact. I look back at the house and no one is awake yet. It’s almost noon and everyone including Bella is still asleep. I couldn’t sleep at all. Not a wink. I leave my neighborhood and board the bus to the address he listed and I come to a storage facility. It’s located south of the city and the owner, a man named Mike, allows me into the gate. I show him the key and the address and Mike immediately knows it’s from my grandpa. I guess he owned a storage unit here for over 25 years. Number 886 is on the key and he walks me to the storage unit talking about how my grandpa was always a loyal customer. Keeping antiques, bikes, and vintage cars here. But the man always had his secrets. He had his treasures and his precious possessions. Mike escorts me into a building, keys in the code, and we walk down one single hallway of 20 identical storage units inside. We walk all the way to the end until we come to mine.
Unit 886
“Thanks,” I smile.
He leaves and I take out the key from my pocket and slip it into the lock. Like a magic trick, it pops and unlocks. I roll the garage door up and I see a scooter in the middle of the room attached to a note and a single black leather suitcase on the seat. It must’ve been here for a long time because there’s a thin layer of dust over the bike. But it’s not just any bike. It’s a 1972 Ducati motorcycle the 750 GT edition, with a leather jacket, and of course a helmet. I open the note.
Happy 18th Birthday, my sweet grandbaby!
Grandpa loves you very much!
I went and got this restored for you a couple of years back. You’re still a youngin’ right now but I hope you like it.
Now go out and see the world.
Grandpa must’ve planned this a long time ago for my upcoming 18th birthday next year. My heart grows full and I wish more than ever I could leave this place now and never come back. Get gas, pack nothing, and hit the highway. I’m so happy he could give this to me now but I can’t leave yet. I need to plan my escape a little more carefully. Like Bella, mom would try and find me and bring me back like a lost dog. Now I have a way to get to work and mom will never know. She can never, ever, ever know. I look at the suitcase. It’s a large leather suitcase from the 70s with his name engraved in long and beautiful cursive letters on the box. There’s a combination on the side and I immediately get a text message from the man himself.
The code is 0215
My birthday. I look around the room and see a security camera with a blinking red light and I wave. My screen vibrates again.
Happy early birthday grandbaby
I spin the numbers until it pops open and inside is a small tactical box. As soon as I see a gun inside the foam of this box it should’ve made me shiver. But I know from an early age that grandpa was always a man who loved his Andy Griffon show, no raisins in his cereal, and loved his guns. Inside is a Glock 19 9mm, a good gun for a beginner. I close it, lock it, and decide to leave the gun here for now because god forbid I get pulled over without having a license to carry in Michigan. I shrug on my new leather jacket and feel it hug my body perfectly. It still smells new. I check my watch and I suddenly get an idea.
Hey, you around?
I press send and wait anxiously for a reply. Then my phone buzzes again but it’s not Nathan. It’s Bella.
Hey, sis, where are you? Dad kicked me out today and I’m getting Randy and we’re both going to the airport. I saw your note. Where can I pick you up?
Don’t worry about me. Just tell me where we’re meeting.
?. The old bowling alley near the school on Main Street. 15 minutes ETA
Gotcha
I put on my helmet and bring the glass protector down over my eyes and clip the strap under my chin. I slip in the keys, turn, and my bike kicks to life and I’m out of there. The speed and torque feel incredible as soon as I hit that asphalt and I’m suddenly in control of everything. I can feel the wind and the feel of the road. The engine is the best part, even sitting at a red light I can feel the power beneath my body. In no time I see Bella and Randy waiting inside the bowling alley for a table.
“Holy shit, what the fuck is that!?” Bella’s face lights up.
“It’s a gift from grandpa for my 18th birthday.”
“You lucky girl!”
From where she was standing I could see the bruises on her face, a busted lip, and a black eye. But, in a strange way, she moves with grace and confidence with a big smile on her face like last night never happened. She still stood tall in her shapeless black coat and the baggy clothing she wore did nothing to accentuate her figure, she was still undefeatable Isabella. She moved to me with the grace of a beauty queen beneath her bulky clothing and had every man in the bowling alley and bar following her every move, hypnotizing them like the swing of a pendulum.
“Hey, sis! I got you a beer.”
“You know I’m still underage.”
“Don’t worry about it, I know a guy. Come on, we got a table in the bar’s lounge.”
We sit and Randy is the first to apologize to me. He feels awful and tells me that it was his fault everything happened, he may have been a handsome idiot but he was still sweet to my sister. He places his hand over hers and gives her a squeeze, still happy she’s wearing his engagement ring. Wait… where’s her engagement ring?
“Bells, you didn’t….! Tell me you didn’t!”
She smiled,” I fucked up, E. It’s literally the least I could do. I got the money for you and pay you back like I promised I would. Please, take it and don’t give me any shit. You deserve to get the hell out of here just as much as anyone else does.”
“Bells…”
“Stop trying to defend me, E. I know you don’t hate me but you definitely should be mad. I’m going to do everything I can to get you out of here.”
“No, I get it.”
“Isn’t that right, babe?”
“That’s right.”
Randy smiled, touching her shoulder.
“That’s one of the reasons we wanted to talk to you. Bella told me what happened and I feel absolutely awful. This is completely my fault no matter what your sister says. So that’s why we’re moving out of the loft and trying to buy a house that would be big enough for the three of us.”
“The three of us?”
“We talked about this all night.”
“Like moving in together?”
“Yea, together, together.”
“Yes, we want to move to Arizona and take you with us. We got a little money saved in the bank and my aunt lives in Sedona with all the other older spiritual women who wear long turquoise jewelry and flowy dresses and 50 cats. I’ll be planning in a couple of months and I’m going to try and secure a job in Phoenix and make sure we’re taken care of. Maybe after you finish high school and graduate you can come live with us.”
“Just like we planned…”
“Together?”
“Together, always.”
Years ago, Bella and I had dreamed about our escape. Just leave and never come back and travel all over the world. With everything we both faced and experienced inside our home, we couldn’t do it without each other. When Bella left and I missed her so much, I cried for days. My big sister had become my only security blanket when dad was drinking and my mom would be depressed. There was no such thing as a simple day at the house. On the days I wept, I’d try and stay in bed and think of what to do alone. Where I could go and imagine what my life would be like. A world without mom or dad and how beautiful it would be. It seemed like a pipedream for both of us. Bella told me more about their plan and she convinced me to keep working with my new employee. My escape cannot be possible without him. Norman was the only man who could help me. All my dreams lay in his hands. We drank our beers, ate pizza, and played two games of bowling before we stood out in the parking lot saying our goodbyes. She gave me an envelope containing $2,000.
The Next Week:
I tucked my shirt into my pants and made sure mom and dad were still sleeping. I adjusted the ponytail on my head and made sure to leave before they woke up. No breakfast today, I’d eat later. My lunch was tucked into a plastic bag in the kitchen. A bologna sandwich with mayonnaise along with a bottle of water. My head keeps tricking me into thinking my father is standing behind me, but no one is there. Or my mother is waiting in the living room smoking and waiting to lecture me about the importance of the family and our survival. Her kind of survival was all about how much money her husband raked in every month and her dedication to the growth of her two daughters. We would lead her legacy. I could understand her worrying about the financial troubles of the family, but it ashamed me to actually take pity on her. She’s my mom. I’m supposed to forgive her, right? I grabbed my coat before carefully stepping downstairs and opening the front door. They wake up every day at 11 am to watch the news, sleep, go to the supermarket, and scream at each other. It’s 6:00 am in the morning on a cold Monday. So why was I so nervous? Maybe it was him I was getting nervous about. I walk out of the house and down the block to where I’ve hidden my bike behind some bushes and I get on. I rip off the camouflage tarp and start it. When arriving at his house I notice a large pile of mail stuck and wedged into the slot of the door like it’s been there for days, even months.
I knock.
His dog, Shadow, already announced my arrival before I parked my bike because as soon as my knuckles even touch his door he swings it open wearing a white shirt and blue jeans like he’s doing them a favor. He’s still as intimidating as he was when I last saw him. He’s so tall and my eyes flit over his torso.
“Evey?”
“Yes, hello.”
His chin points inward.
“Come in,” he says stepping back. “You can hang your coat in the closet here.”
“Good morning Mr. Nordstrom,” I smile. “Thank you.”
Before I step in his hand catches my wrist and for a moment I watch him, with interest, as his large calloused hand finds my elbow, holds me there as if he’s checking I’m truly there, and I shrug out of my coat. He takes his time. The leather fabric of my coat is heavy and thick almost like his arms and chest. Jesus Christ, he’s fit for his age. His shoulders are broad, broader than Nathan’s, and thickly corded. Mr. Nordstrom places my leather jacket inside the closet on a hanger and I notice his head is tilted to the side as if he’s smelling again. I notice that his fingers linger on my leather jacket for a moment longer as if there are traces of my warmth that still linger deep within the material. His salt and pepper hair is thick at the sides and slightly long on top, all combed back from his cruel face that is completely riddled with mystery and scars. Streaks of silver hair only add to the sense of authority, maturity, and experience he carried about him.
“Follow me,” he orders.
I follow him down the hallway to the kitchen he walks with confidence, one hand tracing along the wall, and he pulls out a chair for me again. I sit and still watch him with interest. With fascination. He reaches for something on the stove and pulls two cups from the cupboard. Then pulls out a jar of sugar and a carton of milk from the fridge.
“Coffee.”
It’s not a question but more like a statement. Like, hey, I have this.
“Yes, please,” I say politely.
I can’t take my eyes off this man.
As he moves through his kitchen with such fluidity, I wonder if it’s his job to care for me than vice versa. Norman doesn’t have a coffee machine like 99% of households but he has a silver percolator that’s old, very old, and is decorated with little dents all over it. He must’ve prepared this before I arrived because the coffee is hot and ready to be served. And, holy shit, the smell of coffee wafts through the kitchen and my mouth immediately waters. Its dark and rich aroma is so incredible my whole body shivers.
Starbucks, eat your heart out.
My lips move and my tongue pushes to the roof of my mouth suddenly craving its dark, crisp, and pleasant taste. Norman places a porcelain cup in front of me and he pours me the first cup. The coffee is the same color as my leather jacket, jet black. His biceps stretch the material of his shirt a little as he pours and I can’t help but smell him. He smells clean like Irish soap, cedar wood, and earthy fresh cut grass completing his Lord of the Manor look, along with the snowy white shirt that is a stark contrast to his tanned features. I take one spoonful of sugar and little dribbles of milk into my coffee and stir as I watch him pour himself a cup and sit across from me. Even sitting down his large presence almost takes up half the table, half the room, and half my thoughts.
Jesus, Evey, get a hold of yourself.
This man is self-disciplined. He doesn’t add any sugar or milk to his cup and he doesn’t take his time sipping his coffee as I do. There’s just not enough time, I guess.
“Do you have the list I gave you?”
“Hmm? Oh, yea, I have it.”
“Good, take your bike and park in the garage and lock it up. I’ll give you the key. Sometimes people, kids, will steal.”
“O-Ok.”
He could hear I was riding a bike. I kept my gaze downcast to my cup, a question itching in the back of my mind.
“How did you—”
“I have good hearing.” He finished his cup, both his large hands gripping the mug, almost engulfing it. “Underestimate no one.”
My chest tightened,” Ok.”
“Do you have any more questions?”
“Umm…” my mind went through a million questions like a bullet bursting through the neck of a whiskey bottle.
My cheeks flame when a little coffee drips down his strong taut neck and my self-restraint to stare became a meaningless rumble on the edges of my consciousness. He catches it with his thumb and licks it. Stop it. Be professional. Get a hold of yourself. My head lowers, clearing my throat, trying to stir my coffee and feeling afraid of what I would find in myself if I stared at him any longer.
“Yea, I do…” I blush even harder. There’s a nervous wobble to my voice. “I know you’ve been injured because you were attacked and you’re also… v-visually impaired.”
“Just say blind.”
“Ok.” I’m not sure why I get so tongue-tied around this man.
“It’s alright,” he assures. His tone is warm and I feel more comfortable. It almost catches me off guard.
“You wrote in your list that you would need personal help. So, my question is: How would you like me to help you?”
It’s a polite question and I watch him lean back in his chair. He’s hesitant but eventually reveals one big secret.
“I was shot.”
“Oh,” I almost gasp when he stands and turns to point at his ribcage and lifts his shirt.
It’s a gunshot wound that is still healing and by the looks of it— painful, still very painful. It’s still bandaged and still red, almost purple. It’s like a dark purple-ish black bruise. He wasn’t just shot from the looks of his bruises and marks, he must’ve been in a fight. And won. Even when he lifts his shirt up, stretching his waist, he winces slightly, trying not to exude any weakness. Holy shit, he has a six-pack. He takes my reaction as a reply and sits down.
“I just need it cleaned every now and then.”
A big part of me wants to reach out and graze my hand at his wound and feel his side. Even from where he’s standing I can feel his body heat practically lick at the cool air. But you never touch a wounded animal, not even one as tame as he is.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“It’s not your fault.”
He drops his shirt down, seating himself.
“Another rule: don’t move any furniture around. Under any circumstances. When you leave this table put your chair back. When you take a broom put it precisely where you found it. Never rearrange anything without telling me. Not even a chair. Not even a spoon. I have a memory of everything in this house and things have a special place.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Nordstrom.”
“Norman,” he says with a slight chuckle. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“Ok.”
“Do you see the keys hanging on the wall by the door?”
I look over,” Yes.”
“You may take those keys and go to the garage. Today I will skip breakfast. I will be upstairs when you return.”
“Alright.”
Finishing my coffee, I escorted my bike inside the garage. I tapped the kickstand down next to an old broken-down Chevy truck that was halfway covered with an old tarp. Tools, work table, and dusty shelves. An old cedar box was also displayed containing an American flag, medals, and a plaque with his name on it. Norman was a Navy Seal, or he used to be. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Returning inside, I delve into my duties. Norman stayed upstairs the entire day. I fed and walked Shadow the Rottweiler around the block. The big bear was a big baby who was fond of head scratches, baby talk, and his tennis ball. As I completed my duties as a caregiver, I discovered little clues about my mysterious employer. His home wasn’t too close to downtown but it wasn’t far either. His nearest neighbor was about 5 blocks down and the nearest store was 15 minutes away. The living room is an exquisite room, full of personal artifacts sitting in a tidy clutter against the walls in boxes. Books, pictures, and family photo albums. Displayed together it looks beautiful and incomparable. I’m holding the vacuum nozzle in my hand pressing the button on the box activating the vacuum to suck the spider webs off the ceiling corners. I’m standing on my toes going along the ceiling walls. I push my foot on the tab and it shuts off slowly. I roll the hose and box back into the closet and grab the broom next. The living room curtains are draped back into neat knots revealing enough sunlight to bring some charm into this house. The walls look blue/green with white frames around the doors and windows. I take a look at the list making a mental note of what’s next. There still feels like there’s so much to do. Dust bunnies fly and bounce around my feet as I gather them in a dustpan and dump it in the trash. I check my time. It’s almost 4:30 and that means I have to duct tape the carpets to the floorboards. Kneeling down, slipping off my gloves, I grab the giant silver roll and tear off a sticky strip and apply it evenly to the edge of the carpets, pushing my thumb against it evenly.
Creeaakkk…
I lift my head up and expect to see Mr. Nordstrom standing in the hallway leaning against the wall but there’s no one there. The hallway lamps aren’t on so it’s too dark to see past the frame of the doorway. I stand up holding the duct tape in my hand looking down the hallway and trying to listen to another sound. Could it be my imagination? It must be nothing. Pressing my lips together, the suspicion vanishes from my head. I go into the kitchen and take out the mop and bucket and squeeze the handle twisting the braids until it’s damp and warm. I rotate the handle in a sliding motion across the floor until the smell of thick soap fills my nostrils and I squeeze the handle twisting the braids until it’s not dripping anymore. I move across the floorboards as efficiently as I can. I’m sure to generously use as much water and soap as possible before twisting the dirty water out of the braids and continuing into the hallway.
Creeaakkk…
Creeaakkk…
I stop and looked up at the ceiling. Little bits of dirt fell in strings from the ceiling with each thump and footfall coming from Mr. Nordstrom. He was coming downstairs. I mopped as fast as I could across the floorboards because it was nearing 5:00 and my laundry chore wasn’t done! I threw the mop and bucket into the closet, washed my hands, tied back my hair, and fiddled for a hairpin. I hurry and grab the laundry basket off the washer and hold it against my hip. My timing couldn’t be more perfect as the man walked into the kitchen. He’s wearing his white shirt and jeans from this morning with socks but no boots holding his cane, his leg still trembling. Why didn’t he ask for my help coming down the stairs? His hand holds the frame of the entryway into the kitchen and he couldn’t look any more rugged than he is now.
“Hello,” I said, so he’ll know I was located in the room.
He tilts his head to the side. As if he’s looking at the floors and suddenly I’m nervous. He tilts his head looking at the windows across the room and I understand what he’s doing. He begins to smell the room again, calculating my work. It must smell clean and it wins his approval. He steps forward and reaches for the chair. I stand there measuring his actions. It seems like he’s tired, weak, or friendly, but I could never be too sure.
“The cabinet. Bring me what’s in the cabinet…” his gravelly voice mumbled pointing across the kitchen.
I look at the cabinet, him, and back at the cabinet. Setting the basket down I open it and there’s only one box. It’s a box of canned goods. Some of these looked a couple of years old. Some of them had labels and trademarks I’d never seen before. The cans rumble and clink and clank together as I set them on the table in front of him. Slowly he reaches for the box looking straight ahead of him, his fingers feeling the soft smooth cardboard, and begins to take out the cans. One by one he takes them all out and makes sure it’s empty before counting them.
“Sit,” he orders.
(Ok! That's it! The 4th chapter to my story is much longer than it is on here. Just PM and ask how you can read the rest of the chapter for Norman Nordstrom in my fan fiction of Don't Breathe! Thanks everyone!)